CHARMIDES
By Plato
INTRODUCTION.
The subject of the Charmides is Temperance or (Greek), a
peculiarly Greek
notion, which may also be rendered Moderation (Compare Cic.
Tusc. '(Greek),
quam soleo equidem tum temperantiam, tum moderationem
appellare, nonnunquam
etiam modestiam.'), Modesty, Discretion, Wisdom, without
completely
exhausting by all these terms the various associations of
the word. It may
be described as 'mens sana in corpore sano,' the harmony or
due proportion
of the higher and lower elements of human nature which
'makes a man his own
master,' according to the definition of the Republic.
In the accompanying
translation the word has been rendered in different places
either
Temperance or Wisdom, as the connection seemed to
require: for in the
philosophy of Plato (Greek) still retains an intellectual
element (as
Socrates is also said to have identified (Greek) with
(Greek): Xen. Mem.)
and is not yet relegated to the sphere of moral virtue, as
in the
Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle.
The beautiful youth, Charmides, who is also the most
temperate of human
beings, is asked by Socrates, 'What is Temperance?'
He answers
characteristically, (1) 'Quietness.' 'But Temperance
is a fine and noble
thing; and quietness in many or most cases is not so fine a
thing as
quickness.' He tries again and says (2) that
temperance is modesty. But
this again is set aside by a sophistical application of
Homer: for
temperance is good as well as noble, and Homer has declared
that 'modesty
is not good for a needy man.' (3) Once more Charmides
makes the attempt.
This time he gives a definition which he has heard, and of
which Socrates
conjectures that Critias must be the author:
'Temperance is doing one's
own business.' But the artisan who makes another
man's shoes may be
temperate, and yet he is not doing his own business; and
temperance defined
thus would be opposed to the division of labour which
exists in every
temperate or well-ordered state. How is this riddle
to be explained?
Critias, who takes the place of Charmides, distinguishes in
his answer
between 'making' and 'doing,' and with the help of a
misapplied quotation
from Hesiod assigns to the words 'doing' and 'work' an
exclusively good
sense: Temperance is doing one's own business;--(4)
is doing good.
Still an element of knowledge is wanting which Critias is
readily induced
to admit at the suggestion of Socrates; and, in the spirit
of Socrates and
of Greek life generally, proposes as a fifth definition,
(5) Temperance is
self-knowledge. But all sciences have a
subject: number is the subject of
arithmetic, health of medicine--what is the subject of
temperance or
wisdom? The answer is that (6) Temperance is the
knowledge of what a man
knows and of what he does not know. But this is
contrary to analogy; there
is no vision of vision, but only of visible things; no love
of loves, but
only of beautiful things; how then can there be a knowledge
of knowledge?
That which is older, heavier, lighter, is older, heavier,
and lighter than
something else, not than itself, and this seems to be true
of all relative
notions--the object of relation is outside of them; at any
rate they can
only have relation to themselves in the form of that
object. Whether there
are any such cases of reflex relation or not, and whether
that sort of
knowledge which we term Temperance is of this reflex
nature, has yet to be
determined by the great metaphysician. But even if
knowledge can know
itself, how does the knowledge of what we know imply the
knowledge of what
we do not know? Besides, knowledge is an abstraction
only, and will not
inform us of any particular subject, such as medicine,
building, and the
like. It may tell us that we or other men know
something, but can never
tell us what we know.
Admitting that there is a knowledge of what we know and of
what we do not
know, which would supply a rule and measure of all things,
still there
would be no good in this; and the knowledge which
temperance gives must be
of a kind which will do us good; for temperance is a
good. But this
universal knowledge does not tend to our happiness and
good: the only kind
of knowledge which brings happiness is the knowledge of
good and evil. To
this Critias replies that the science or knowledge of good
and evil, and
all the other sciences, are regulated by the higher science
or knowledge of
knowledge. Socrates replies by again dividing the
abstract from the
concrete, and asks how this knowledge conduces to happiness
in the same
definite way in which medicine conduces to health.
And now, after making all these concessions, which are
really inadmissible,
we are still as far as ever from ascertaining the nature of
temperance,
which Charmides has already discovered, and had therefore
better rest in
the knowledge that the more temperate he is the happier he
will be, and not
trouble himself with the speculations of Socrates.
In this Dialogue may be noted (1) The Greek ideal of beauty
and goodness,
the vision of the fair soul in the fair body, realised in
the beautiful
Charmides; (2) The true conception of medicine as a science
of the whole as
well as the parts, and of the mind as well as the body,
which is playfully
intimated in the story of the Thracian; (3) The tendency of
the age to
verbal distinctions, which here, as in the Protagoras and
Cratylus, are
ascribed to the ingenuity of Prodicus; and to
interpretations or rather
parodies of Homer or Hesiod, which are eminently
characteristic of Plato
and his contemporaries; (4) The germ of an ethical
principle contained in
the notion that temperance is 'doing one's own business,'
which in the
Republic (such is the shifting character of the Platonic
philosophy) is
given as the definition, not of temperance, but of justice;
(5) The
impatience which is exhibited by Socrates of any definition
of temperance
in which an element of science or knowledge is not
included; (6) The
beginning of metaphysics and logic implied in the two
questions: whether
there can be a science of science, and whether the
knowledge of what you
know is the same as the knowledge of what you do not know;
and also in the
distinction between 'what you know' and 'that you know,'
(Greek;) here too
is the first conception of an absolute self-determined
science (the claims
of which, however, are disputed by Socrates, who asks cui
bono?) as well as
the first suggestion of the difficulty of the abstract and
concrete, and
one of the earliest anticipations of the relation of
subject and object,
and of the subjective element in knowledge--a 'rich
banquet' of
metaphysical questions in which we 'taste of many
things.' (7) And still
the mind of Plato, having snatched for a moment at these
shadows of the
future, quickly rejects them: thus early has he
reached the conclusion
that there can be no science which is a 'science of
nothing' (Parmen.).
(8) The conception of a science of good and evil also first
occurs here, an
anticipation of the Philebus and Republic as well as of
moral philosophy in
later ages.
The dramatic interest of the Dialogue chiefly centres in
the youth
Charmides, with whom Socrates talks in the kindly spirit of
an elder. His
childlike simplicity and ingenuousness are contrasted with
the dialectical
and rhetorical arts of Critias, who is the grown-up man of
the world,
having a tincture of philosophy. No hint is given,
either here or in the
Timaeus, of the infamy which attaches to the name of the
latter in Athenian
history. He is simply a cultivated person who, like
his kinsman Plato, is
ennobled by the connection of his family with Solon (Tim.),
and had been
the follower, if not the disciple, both of Socrates and of
the Sophists.
In the argument he is not unfair, if allowance is made for
a slight
rhetorical tendency, and for a natural desire to save his
reputation with
the company; he is sometimes nearer the truth than
Socrates. Nothing in
his language or behaviour is unbecoming the guardian of the
beautiful
Charmides. His love of reputation is
characteristically Greek, and
contrasts with the humility of Socrates. Nor in
Charmides himself do we
find any resemblance to the Charmides of history, except,
perhaps, the
modest and retiring nature which, according to Xenophon, at
one time of his
life prevented him from speaking in the Assembly (Mem.);
and we are
surprised to hear that, like Critias, he afterwards became
one of the
thirty tyrants. In the Dialogue he is a pattern of
virtue, and is
therefore in no need of the charm which Socrates is unable
to apply. With
youthful naivete, keeping his secret and entering into the
spirit of
Socrates, he enjoys the detection of his elder and guardian
Critias, who is
easily seen to be the author of the definition which he has
so great an
interest in maintaining. The preceding definition,
'Temperance is doing
one's own business,' is assumed to have been borrowed by
Charmides from
another; and when the enquiry becomes more abstract he is
superseded by
Critias (Theaet.; Euthyd.). Socrates preserves his
accustomed irony to the
end; he is in the neighbourhood of several great truths,
which he views in
various lights, but always either by bringing them to the
test of common
sense, or by demanding too great exactness in the use of
words, turns aside
from them and comes at last to no conclusion.
The definitions of temperance proceed in regular order from
the popular to
the philosophical. The first two are simple enough
and partially true,
like the first thoughts of an intelligent youth; the third,
which is a real
contribution to ethical philosophy, is perverted by the
ingenuity of
Socrates, and hardly rescued by an equal perversion on the
part of Critias.
The remaining definitions have a higher aim, which is to
introduce the
element of knowledge, and at last to unite good and truth
in a single
science. But the time has not yet arrived for the
realization of this
vision of metaphysical philosophy; and such a science when
brought nearer
to us in the Philebus and the Republic will not be called
by the name of
(Greek). Hence we see with surprise that Plato, who
in his other writings
identifies good and knowledge, here opposes them, and asks,
almost in the
spirit of Aristotle, how can there be a knowledge of
knowledge, and even if
attainable, how can such a knowledge be of any use?
The difficulty of the Charmides arises chiefly from the two
senses of the
word (Greek), or temperance. From the ethical notion
of temperance, which
is variously defined to be quietness, modesty, doing our
own business, the
doing of good actions, the dialogue passes onto the
intellectual conception
of (Greek), which is declared also to be the science of
self-knowledge, or
of the knowledge of what we know and do not know, or of the
knowledge of
good and evil. The dialogue represents a stage in the
history of
philosophy in which knowledge and action were not yet
distinguished. Hence
the confusion between them, and the easy transition from
one to the other.
The definitions which are offered are all rejected, but it
is to be
observed that they all tend to throw a light on the nature
of temperance,
and that, unlike the distinction of Critias between
(Greek), none of them
are merely verbal quibbles, it is implied that this
question, although it
has not yet received a solution in theory, has been already
answered by
Charmides himself, who has learned to practise the virtue
of self-knowledge
which philosophers are vainly trying to define in
words. In a similar
spirit we might say to a young man who is disturbed by
theological
difficulties, 'Do not trouble yourself about such matters,
but only lead a
good life;' and yet in either case it is not to be denied
that right ideas
of truth may contribute greatly to the improvement of
character.
The reasons why the Charmides, Lysis, Laches have been
placed together and
first in the series of Platonic dialogues, are: (i)
Their shortness and
simplicity. The Charmides and the Lysis, if not the
Laches, are of the
same 'quality' as the Phaedrus and Symposium: and it
is probable, though
far from certain, that the slighter effort preceded the
greater one. (ii)
Their eristic, or rather Socratic character; they belong to
the class
called dialogues of search (Greek), which have no
conclusion. (iii) The
absence in them of certain favourite notions of Plato, such
as the doctrine
of recollection and of the Platonic ideas; the questions,
whether virtue
can be taught; whether the virtues are one or many.
(iv) They have a want
of depth, when compared with the dialogues of the middle
and later period;
and a youthful beauty and grace which is wanting in the
later ones. (v)
Their resemblance to one another; in all the three boyhood
has a great
part. These reasons have various degrees of weight in
determining their
place in the catalogue of the Platonic writings, though
they are not
conclusive. No arrangement of the Platonic dialogues
can be strictly
chronological. The order which has been adopted is
intended mainly for the
convenience of the reader; at the same time, indications of
the date
supplied either by Plato himself or allusions found in the
dialogues have
not been lost sight of. Much may be said about this
subject, but the
results can only be probable; there are no materials which
would enable us
to attain to anything like certainty.
The relations of knowledge and virtue are again brought
forward in the
companion dialogues of the Lysis and Laches; and also in
the Protagoras and
Euthydemus. The opposition of abstract and particular
knowledge in this
dialogue may be compared with a similar opposition of ideas
and phenomena
which occurs in the Prologues to the Parmenides, but seems
rather to belong
to a later stage of the philosophy of Plato.
CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE
by
Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the
narrator, Charmides,
Chaerephon, Critias.
SCENE: The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the
Porch of the King
Archon.
Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and
having been a
good while away, I thought that I should like to go and
look at my old
haunts. So I went into the palaestra of Taureas,
which is over against the
temple adjoining the porch of the King Archon, and there I
found a number
of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My
visit was unexpected, and
no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me
from afar on all
sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up
and ran to me,
seizing my hand, and saying, How did you escape,
Socrates?--(I should
explain that an engagement had taken place at Potidaea not
long before we
came away, of which the news had only just reached Athens.)
You see, I replied, that here I am.
There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very
severe, and that
many of our acquaintance had fallen.
That, I replied, was not far from the truth.
I suppose, he said, that you were present.
I was.
Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we
have only heard
imperfectly.
I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of
Critias the son of
Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and the rest of
the company, I
told them the news from the army, and answered their
several enquiries.
Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn,
began to make
enquiries about matters at home--about the present state of
philosophy, and
about the youth. I asked whether any of them were
remarkable for wisdom or
beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at the door,
invited my attention to
some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to one
another,
followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he
said, I fancy that you
will soon be able to form a judgment. For those who
are just entering are
the advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is thought to
be, of the day,
and he is likely to be not far off himself.
Who is he, I said; and who is his father?
Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and
the son of my
uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him too,
although he was not
grown up at the time of your departure.
Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even
then when he was
still a child, and I should imagine that by this time he
must be almost a
young man.
You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has
made and what he is
like. He had scarcely said the word, when Charmides
entered.
Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything,
and of the
beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of
chalk; for
almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my
eyes. But at that
moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I was
quite astonished at
his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be
enamoured of him;
amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a
troop of lovers
followed him. That grown-up men like ourselves should
have been affected
in this way was not surprising, but I observed that there
was the same
feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least
child, turned
and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.
Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of
him, Socrates? Has he
not a beautiful face?
Most beautiful, I said.
But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you
could see his
naked form: he is absolutely perfect.
And to this they all agreed.
By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he
has only one
other slight addition.
What is that? said Critias.
If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias,
he may be
expected to have this.
He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied
Critias.
Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show
us his soul,
naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he
will like to talk.
That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a
philosopher
already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own
opinion only, but in
that of others.
That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which
has long been in
your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. But
why do you not call
him, and show him to us? for even if he were younger than
he is, there
could be no impropriety in his talking to us in the
presence of you, who
are his guardian and cousin.
Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to
the attendant, he
said, Call Charmides, and tell him that I want him to come
and see a
physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day
before
yesterday. Then again addressing me, he added:
He has been complaining
lately of having a headache when he rises in the
morning: now why should
you not make him believe that you know a cure for the
headache?
Why not, I said; but will he come?
He will be sure to come, he replied.
He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and
me. Great
amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might
and main at his
neighbour in order to make a place for him next to
themselves, until at the
two ends of the row one had to get up and the other was
rolled over
sideways. Now I, my friend, was beginning to feel
awkward; my former bold
belief in my powers of conversing with him had
vanished. And when Critias
told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked
at me in such an
indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a
question. And at that
moment all the people in the palaestra crowded about us,
and, O rare! I
caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and took the
flame. Then I
could no longer contain myself. I thought how well
Cydias understood the
nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warns
some one 'not
to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to be devoured
by him,' for I
felt that I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast
appetite. But I
controlled myself, and when he asked me if I knew the cure
of the headache,
I answered, but with an effort, that I did know.
And what is it? he said.
I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be
accompanied by a
charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same
time that he used
the cure, he would be made whole; but that without the
charm the leaf would
be of no avail.
Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he
said.
With my consent? I said, or without my consent?
With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.
Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my
name?
I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal
said about you
among my companions; and I remember when I was a child
seeing you in
company with my cousin Critias.
I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall
now be more at
home with you and shall be better able to explain the
nature of the charm,
about which I felt a difficulty before. For the charm
will do more,
Charmides, than only cure the headache. I dare say
that you have heard
eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them with
bad eyes, that
they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his
eyes are to be
cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say
that to think of
curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body also,
is the height of
folly. And arguing in this way they apply their
methods to the whole body,
and try to treat and heal the whole and the part
together. Did you ever
observe that this is what they say?
Yes, he said.
And they are right, and you would agree with them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should.
His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees
to regain
confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such,
Charmides, I said, is the
nature of the charm, which I learned when serving with the
army from one of
the physicians of the Thracian king Zamolxis, who are said
to be so skilful
that they can even give immortality. This Thracian
told me that in these
notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the
Greek physicians
are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added,
our king, who is
also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to attempt
to cure the
eyes without the head, or the head without the body, so
neither ought you
to attempt to cure the body without the soul; and this,' he
said, 'is the
reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the
physicians of
Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which ought
to be studied
also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is
well.' For all
good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature,
originates, as he
declared, in the soul, and overflows from thence, as if
from the head into
the eyes. And therefore if the head and body are to
be well, you must
begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing.
And the cure, my dear
youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and
these charms
are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the
soul, and where
temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only
to the head, but
to the whole body. And he who taught me the cure and
the charm at the same
time added a special direction: 'Let no one,' he
said, 'persuade you to
cure the head, until he has first given you his soul to be
cured by the
charm. For this,' he said, 'is the great error of our
day in the treatment
of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from
the body.' And
he added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to
his words, 'Let
no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to
give him the cure,
without the charm.' Now I have sworn, and I must keep
my oath, and
therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian charm
first to your
soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed
to apply the cure
to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to
do with you, my dear
Charmides.
Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will
be an unexpected gain
to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him
to improve his
mind: and I can tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is
not only pre-eminent
in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality which
is given by the
charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?
Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human
beings, and for
his age inferior to none in any quality.
Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought
to excel others
in all good qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no
one present who
could easily point out two Athenian houses, whose union
would be likely to
produce a better or nobler scion than the two from which
you are sprung.
There is your father's house, which is descended from
Critias the son of
Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the
panegyrical verses of
Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty
and virtue and
all other high fortune: and your mother's house is
equally distinguished;
for your maternal uncle, Pyrilampes, is reputed never to
have found his
equal, in Persia at the court of the great king, or on the
continent of
Asia, in all the places to which he went as ambassador, for
stature and
beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the
other. Having such
ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet
son of Glaucon,
your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. If
to beauty you add
temperance, and if in other respects you are what Critias
declares you to
be, then, dear Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the
son of thy mother.
And here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you have
this gift of
temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case
you have no need
of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the
Hyperborean, and I may
as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if
you have not yet
acquired this quality, I must use the charm before I give
you the medicine.
Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth
of what Critias
has been saying;--have you or have you not this quality of
temperance?
Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for
modesty is
becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he
really could not
at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which I
had asked: For,
said he, if I affirm that I am not temperate, that would be
a strange thing
for me to say of myself, and also I should give the lie to
Critias, and
many others who think as he tells you, that I am
temperate: but, on the
other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise
myself, which would
be ill manners; and therefore I do not know how to answer
you.
I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides,
and I think that you
and I ought together to enquire whether you have this
quality about which I
am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled to say
what you do not
like; neither shall I be a rash practitioner of
medicine: therefore, if
you please, I will share the enquiry with you, but I will
not press you if
you would rather not.
There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and
as far as I am
concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best.
I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a
question; for if
temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about
her; she must give
some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may
enable you to form a
notion of her. Is not that true?
Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and therefore you
must be able to
tell what you feel about this.
Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you
have temperance
abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your
opinion, is
Temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to
answer: then he said that
he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly,
such things for
example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything
else of that
nature. In a word, he said, I should answer that, in
my opinion,
temperance is quietness.
Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would
affirm that the
quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words
have any
meaning; and first tell me whether you would not
acknowledge temperance to
be of the class of the noble and good?
Yes.
But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to
write the same
letters quickly or quietly?
Quickly.
And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again.
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or
sharpness are far
better than quietness and slowness?
Yes.
And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?
Certainly.
And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises
generally, quickness and
agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness,
are bad?
That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the
greatest
agility and quickness, is noblest and best?
Yes, certainly.
And is temperance a good?
Yes.
Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but
quickness will be the
higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good?
True, he said.
And which, I said, is better--facility in learning, or
difficulty in
learning?
Facility.
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly,
and difficulty
in learning is learning quietly and slowly?
True.
And is it not better to teach another quickly and
energetically, rather
than quietly and slowly?
Yes.
And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember,
quickly and readily,
or quietly and slowly?
The former.
And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the
soul, and not a
quietness?
True.
And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at
the writing-
master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as
quietly as
possible, but as quickly as possible?
Yes.
And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the
quietest, as I
imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and
discovers, is thought
worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and
quickly?
Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and
activity are
clearly better than slowness and quietness?
Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life
quiet,--
certainly not upon this view; for the life which is
temperate is supposed
to be the good. And of two things, one is
true,--either never, or very
seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better
than the quick and
energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions,
there are as many
quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant
this, temperance
will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and
energetically,
either in walking or talking or in anything else; nor will
the quiet life
be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that temperance
is admitted by
us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick have been
shown to be as
good as the quiet.
I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and
look within;
consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and
the nature of
that which has the effect. Think over all this, and,
like a brave youth,
tell me--What is temperance?
After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly
effort to think, he
said: My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes
a man ashamed or
modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty.
Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that
temperance is
noble?
Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
Yes.
And can that be good which does not make men good?
Certainly not.
And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but
also good?
That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he
says,
'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?
Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?
Clearly.
But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not
bad, is always
good?
That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty--if
temperance is a
good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good?
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should
like to know
what you think about another definition of temperance,
which I just now
remember to have heard from some one, who said, 'That
temperance is doing
our own business.' Was he right who affirmed that?
You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some
philosopher has told
you.
Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have
not.
But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?
No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said
the words, but
whether they are true or not.
There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be
able to discover
their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.
What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have
meant one thing,
and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be
regarded as doing
nothing when he reads or writes?
I should rather think that he was doing something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to
write or read, your
own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as
well as your own
and your friends'?
As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?
Certainly not.
And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you
were doing what
was not your own business?
But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving,
and doing
anything whatever which is done by art,--these all clearly
come under the
head of doing?
Certainly.
And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a
law which
compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and
make his own shoes,
and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on
this principle of
every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from
what is not his
own?
I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered
state.
Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own
business; not at least
in this way, or doing things of this sort?
Clearly not.
Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that
temperance is a man
doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning;
for I do not think
that he could have been such a fool as to mean this.
Was he a fool who
told you, Charmides?
Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.
Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as
a riddle,
thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words
'doing his own
business.'
I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his own
business? Can you tell me?
Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man
himself who used this
phrase did not understand what he was saying.
Whereupon he laughed slyly,
and looked at Critias.
Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that
he had a
reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the
company. He had,
however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he
could no longer
forbear, and I am convinced of the truth of the suspicion
which I
entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this
answer about
temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not
want to answer
himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him
up. He went on
pointing out that he had been refuted, at which Critias
grew angry, and
appeared, as I thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just
as a poet might
quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating
them; so he looked
hard at him and said--
Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this
definition of temperance
did not understand the meaning of his own words, because
you do not
understand them?
Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can
hardly be expected
to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied,
may well be
assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if you
agree with him,
and accept his definition of temperance, I would much
rather argue with you
than with him about the truth or falsehood of the
definition.
I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.
Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question--Do
you admit, as I
was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do
something?
I do.
And do they make or do their own business only, or that of
others also?
They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for
themselves or their
own business only?
Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a
difficulty on his who
proposes as a definition of temperance, 'doing one's own
business,' and
then says that there is no reason why those who do the
business of others
should not be temperate.
Nay (The English reader has to observe that the word 'make'
(Greek), in
Greek, has also the sense of 'do' (Greek).), said he; did I
ever
acknowledge that those who do the business of others are
temperate? I
said, those who make, not those who do.
What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are
not the same?
No more, he replied, than making or working are the same;
thus much I have
learned from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no
disgrace.' Now do you
imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such
things as you were
describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace
in them--for
example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling
pickles, or sitting for
hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not
to be supposed: but I
conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and
work; and, while
admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a
disgrace, when
the employment was not honourable, to have thought that
work was never any
disgrace at all. For things nobly and usefully made
he called works; and
such makings he called workings, and doings; and he must be
supposed to
have called such things only man's proper business, and
what is hurtful,
not his business: and in that sense Hesiod, and any
other wise man, may be
reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work.
O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth,
than I pretty well
knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and
that which is
his own, good; and that the makings (Greek) of the good you
would call
doings (Greek), for I am no stranger to the endless
distinctions which
Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection
to your giving names
any signification which you please, if you will only tell
me what you mean
by them. Please then to begin again, and be a little
plainer. Do you mean
that this doing or making, or whatever is the word which
you would use, of
good actions, is temperance?
I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is
temperate?
Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I
think, but what you
are saying, is the point at issue.
Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil,
and not good, is
not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and
not evil: for
temperance I define in plain words to be the doing of good
actions.
And you may be very likely right in what you are saying;
but I am curious
to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant
of their own
temperance?
I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might
be temperate in
doing another's work, as well as in doing their own?
I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell
me whether a
physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and
good to another
also?
I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
Yes.
And does not he who does his duty act temperately or
wisely?
Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment
is likely to
prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman
necessarily know when
he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited,
by the work
which he is doing?
I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not
know what he is
himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has
done temperately
or wisely. Was not that your statement?
Yes.
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or
temperately, and
be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or
temperance?
But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore
if this is, as
you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous
admissions, I
will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can be
temperate or wise
who does not know himself; and I am not ashamed to confess
that I was in
error. For self-knowledge would certainly be
maintained by me to be the
very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who
dedicated the
inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if
I am not mistaken,
is put there as a sort of salutation which the god
addresses to those who
enter the temple; as much as to say that the ordinary
salutation of 'Hail!'
is not right, and that the exhortation 'Be temperate!'
would be a far
better way of saluting one another. The notion of him
who dedicated the
inscription was, as I believe, that the god speaks to those
who enter his
temple, not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters,
the first word
which he hears is 'Be temperate!' This, however, like
a prophet he
expresses in a sort of riddle, for 'Know thyself!' and 'Be
temperate!' are
the same, as I maintain, and as the letters imply (Greek),
and yet they may
be easily misunderstood; and succeeding sages who added
'Never too much,'
or, 'Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would appear
to have so
misunderstood them; for they imagined that 'Know thyself!'
was a piece of
advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the
worshippers at
their first coming in; and they dedicated their own
inscription under the
idea that they too would give equally useful pieces of
advice. Shall I
tell you, Socrates, why I say all this? My object is
to leave the previous
discussion (in which I know not whether you or I are more
right, but, at
any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new
one in which I
will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is
self-knowledge.
Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I
professed to know
about the questions which I ask, and as though I could, if
I only would,
agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I enquire
with you into the truth
of that which is advanced from time to time, just because I
do not know;
and when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree with
you or not.
Please then to allow me time to reflect.
Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance,
or wisdom, if
implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a
science of
something.
Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?
True.
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the
use or effect of
medicine, which is this science of health, I should answer
that medicine is
of very great use in producing health, which, as you will
admit, is an
excellent effect.
Granted.
And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of
architecture,
which is the science of building, I should say houses, and
so of other
arts, which all have their different results. Now I
want you, Critias, to
answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom,
which, according to
you, is the science of itself. Admitting this view, I
ask of you, what
good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or
wisdom, which is the
science of itself, effect? Answer me.
That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates,
he said; for
wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they
are like one
another: but you proceed as if they were alike.
For tell me, he said,
what result is there of computation or geometry, in the
same sense as a
house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving,
or any other work
of any other art? Can you show me any such result of
them? You cannot.
That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has
a subject which
is different from the science. I can show you that
the art of computation
has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical
relations to
themselves and to each other. Is not that true?
Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art
of computation?
They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and
heavier; but the art
of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light
another. Do you
admit that?
Yes.
Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and
of which wisdom
is the science?
You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he
said. You come
asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other
sciences, and
then you try to discover some respect in which they are
alike; but they are
not, for all the other sciences are of something else, and
not of
themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences,
and of itself.
And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware:
and that you are only
doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying
to refute me,
instead of pursuing the argument.
And what if I am? How can you think that I have any
other motive in
refuting you but what I should have in examining into
myself? which motive
would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that I
knew something of
which I was ignorant. And at this moment I pursue the
argument chiefly for
my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for the sake
of my other
friends. For is not the discovery of things as they
truly are, a good
common to all mankind?
Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion
in answer to
the question which I asked, never minding whether Critias
or Socrates is
the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see
what will come of
the refutation.
I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as
you say.
Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about
wisdom.
I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the
science of
itself as well as of the other sciences.
But the science of science, I said, will also be the
science of the absence
of science.
Very true, he said.
Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know
himself, and be able
to examine what he knows or does not know, and to see what
others know and
think that they know and do really know; and what they do
not know, and
fancy that they know, when they do not. No other
person will be able to do
this. And this is wisdom and temperance and
self-knowledge--for a man to
know what he knows, and what he does not know. That
is your meaning?
Yes, he said.
Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last
argument to Zeus
the Saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the first
place, whether it is
or is not possible for a person to know that he knows and
does not know
what he knows and does not know; and in the second place,
whether, if
perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use.
That is what we have to consider, he said.
And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way
out of a
difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell
you the nature of
the difficulty?
By all means, he replied.
Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to
this: that there
must be a single science which is wholly a science of
itself and of other
sciences, and that the same is also the science of the
absence of science?
Yes.
But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my
friend: in any parallel
case, the impossibility will be transparent to you.
How is that? and in what cases do you mean?
In such cases as this: Suppose that there is a kind
of vision which is not
like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of other
sorts of vision,
and of the defect of them, which in seeing sees no colour,
but only itself
and other sorts of vision: Do you think that there is
such a kind of
vision?
Certainly not.
Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all,
but only itself
and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them?
There is not.
Or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is
any sense of itself
and of other senses, but which is incapable of perceiving
the objects of
the senses?
I think not.
Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any
pleasure, but of
itself, and of all other desires?
Certainly not.
Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but
only for itself and
all other wishes?
I should answer, No.
Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love
of beauty, but
of itself and of other loves?
I should not.
Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other
fears, but has
no object of fear?
I never did, he said.
Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other
opinions, and
which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in general?
Certainly not.
But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which,
having no
subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other
sciences?
Yes, that is what is affirmed.
But how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we
must not however as yet
absolutely deny the possibility of such a science; let us
rather consider
the matter.
You are quite right.
Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a
science of something,
and is of a nature to be a science of something?
Yes.
Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater
than something
else? (Socrates is intending to show that science
differs from the object
of science, as any other relative differs from the object
of relation. But
where there is comparison--greater, less, heavier, lighter,
and the like--a
relation to self as well as to other things involves an
absolute
contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case of the
senses, is hardly
conceivable. The use of the genitive after the
comparative in Greek,
(Greek), creates an unavoidable obscurity in the
translation.)
Yes.
Which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater?
To be sure.
And if we could find something which is at once greater
than itself, and
greater than other great things, but not greater than those
things in
comparison of which the others are greater, then that thing
would have the
property of being greater and also less than itself?
That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference.
Or if there be a double which is double of itself and of
other doubles,
these will be halves; for the double is relative to the
half?
That is true.
And that which is greater than itself will also be less,
and that which is
heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older will
also be younger:
and the same of other things; that which has a nature
relative to self will
retain also the nature of its object: I mean to say,
for example, that
hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is that
true?
Yes.
Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for
there is no other
way of hearing.
Certainly.
And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must
see a colour,
for sight cannot see that which has no colour.
No.
Do you remark, Critias, that in several of the examples
which have been
recited the notion of a relation to self is altogether
inadmissible, and in
other cases hardly credible--inadmissible, for example, in
the case of
magnitudes, numbers, and the like?
Very true.
But in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of
self-motion, and
the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be
regarded as
incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. And
some great man, my
friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for
us, whether there
is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to
self, or some
things only and not others; and whether in this class of
self-related
things, if there be such a class, that science which is
called wisdom or
temperance is included. I altogether distrust my own
power of determining
these matters: I am not certain whether there is such
a science of science
at all; and even if there be, I should not acknowledge this
to be wisdom or
temperance, until I can also see whether such a science
would or would not
do us any good; for I have an impression that temperance is
a benefit and a
good. And therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you
maintain that
temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of
the absence of
science, I will request you to show in the first place, as
I was saying
before, the possibility, and in the second place, the
advantage, of such a
science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me that you are
right in your
view of temperance.
Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a
difficulty; and as one
person when another yawns in his presence catches the
infection of yawning
from him, so did he seem to be driven into a difficulty by
my difficulty.
But as he had a reputation to maintain, he was ashamed to
admit before the
company that he could not answer my challenge or determine
the question at
issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his
perplexity. In
order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well
then Critias, if
you like, let us assume that there is this science of
science; whether the
assumption is right or wrong may hereafter be
investigated. Admitting the
existence of it, will you tell me how such a science
enables us to
distinguish what we know or do not know, which, as we were
saying, is
self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were saying?
Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is certainly
true: for he who has
this science or knowledge which knows itself will become
like the knowledge
which he has, in the same way that he who has swiftness
will be swift, and
he who has beauty will be beautiful, and he who has
knowledge will know.
In the same way he who has that knowledge which is
self-knowing, will know
himself.
I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when
he possesses
that which has self-knowledge: but what necessity is
there that, having
this, he should know what he knows and what he does not
know?
Because, Socrates, they are the same.
Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for
still I fail to
comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know
is the same as
the knowledge of self.
What do you mean? he said.
This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that
there is a science of
science;--can this do more than determine that of two
things one is and the
other is not science or knowledge?
No, just that.
But is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as
knowledge or
want of knowledge of justice?
Certainly not.
The one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas
that of which we
are speaking is knowledge pure and simple.
Very true.
And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of
knowledge, and has no
further knowledge of health and justice, the probability is
that he will
only know that he knows something, and has a certain
knowledge, whether
concerning himself or other men.
True.
Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know
what he knows?
Say that he knows health;--not wisdom or temperance, but
the art of
medicine has taught it to him;--and he has learned harmony
from the art of
music, and building from the art of building,--neither,
from wisdom or
temperance: and the same of other things.
That is evident.
How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge
or science of
science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he
knows building?
It is impossible.
Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that
he knows, but
not what he knows?
True.
Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge
of the things
which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge that we
know or do not
know?
That is the inference.
Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine
whether a
pretender knows or does not know that which he says that he
knows: he will
only know that he has a knowledge of some kind; but wisdom
will not show
him of what the knowledge is?
Plainly not.
Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in
medicine from the
true physician, nor between any other true and false
professor of
knowledge. Let us consider the matter in this
way: If the wise man or any
other man wants to distinguish the true physician from the
false, how will
he proceed? He will not talk to him about medicine;
and that, as we were
saying, is the only thing which the physician understands.
True.
And, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of
science, for this
has been assumed to be the province of wisdom.
True.
And further, since medicine is science, we must infer that
he does not know
anything of medicine.
Exactly.
Then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has
some kind of
science or knowledge; but when he wants to discover the
nature of this he
will ask, What is the subject-matter? For the several
sciences are
distinguished not by the mere fact that they are sciences,
but by the
nature of their subjects. Is not that true?
Quite true.
And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having
the subject-
matter of health and disease?
Yes.
And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must
pursue the
enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is
extraneous?
True.
And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a
physician in
what relates to these?
He will.
He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether
what he does is
right, in relation to health and disease?
He will.
But can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he
have a knowledge
of medicine?
He cannot.
No one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have
this knowledge;
and therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a
physician as well as
a wise man.
Very true.
Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of
science, and of
the absence of science or knowledge, will not be able to
distinguish the
physician who knows from one who does not know but pretends
or thinks that
he knows, or any other professor of anything at all; like
any other artist,
he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no one
else.
That is evident, he said.
But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer
in wisdom or
temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom? If,
indeed, as we were
supposing at first, the wise man had been able to
distinguish what he knew
and did not know, and that he knew the one and did not know
the other, and
to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others,
there would
certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for
then we should
never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the
unerring guides
of ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should
not have
attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have
found out those
who knew, and have handed the business over to them and
trusted in them;
nor should we have allowed those who were under us to do
anything which
they were not likely to do well; and they would be likely
to do well just
that of which they had knowledge; and the house or state
which was ordered
or administered under the guidance of wisdom, and
everything else of which
wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for
truth guiding, and
error having been eliminated, in all their doings, men
would have done
well, and would have been happy. Was not this,
Critias, what we spoke of
as the great advantage of wisdom--to know what is known and
what is unknown
to us?
Very true, he said.
And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be
found anywhere.
I perceive, he said.
May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new
light merely as
a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this
advantage:--that he who
possesses such knowledge will more easily learn anything
which he learns;
and that everything will be clearer to him, because, in
addition to the
knowledge of individuals, he sees the science, and this
also will better
enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what
he knows
himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge
may be supposed
to have a feebler and weaker insight? Are not these,
my friend, the real
advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? And
are not we looking and
seeking after something more than is to be found in her?
That is very likely, he said.
That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have
been enquiring
to no purpose; as I am led to infer, because I observe that
if this is
wisdom, some strange consequences would follow. Let
us, if you please,
assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and
further admit and
allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the
knowledge of what we
know and do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon
further
consideration, I am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, such
as this, would
do us much good. For we were wrong, I think, in
supposing, as we were
saying just now, that such wisdom ordering the government
of house or state
would be a great benefit.
How so? he said.
Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit the great
benefits which
mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things
which they knew,
and committing the things of which they are ignorant to
those who were
better acquainted with them.
Were we not right in making that admission?
I think not.
How very strange, Socrates!
By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree with you; and I
was thinking as
much just now when I said that strange consequences would
follow, and that
I was afraid we were on the wrong track; for however ready
we may be to
admit that this is wisdom, I certainly cannot make out what
good this sort
of thing does to us.
What do you mean? he said; I wish that you could make me
understand what
you mean.
I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied;
and yet if a man
has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot let
the thought which
comes into his mind pass away unheeded and unexamined.
I like that, he said.
Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether coming through
the horn or the
ivory gate, I cannot tell. The dream is this:
Let us suppose that wisdom
is such as we are now defining, and that she has absolute
sway over us;
then each action will be done according to the arts or
sciences, and no one
professing to be a pilot when he is not, or any physician
or general, or
any one else pretending to know matters of which he is
ignorant, will
deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our
safety at sea, and
also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes, and
all other
instruments and implements will be skilfully made, because
the workmen will
be good and true. Aye, and if you please, you may
suppose that prophecy,
which is the knowledge of the future, will be under the
control of wisdom,
and that she will deter deceivers and set up the true
prophets in their
place as the revealers of the future. Now I quite
agree that mankind, thus
provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for
wisdom would watch
and prevent ignorance from intruding on us. But
whether by acting
according to knowledge we shall act well and be happy, my
dear Critias,--
this is a point which we have not yet been able to
determine.
Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you
will hardly
find the crown of happiness in anything else.
But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just answer me
that small question.
Do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking?
God forbid.
Or of working in brass?
Certainly not.
Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?
No, I do not.
Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who
lives according to
knowledge is happy, for these live according to knowledge,
and yet they are
not allowed by you to be happy; but I think that you mean
to confine
happiness to particular individuals who live according to
knowledge, such
for example as the prophet, who, as I was saying, knows the
future. Is it
of him you are speaking or of some one else?
Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well.
Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and present as
well as the future,
and is ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that there
is such a person,
and if there is, you will allow that he is the most knowing
of all living
men.
Certainly he is.
Yet I should like to know one thing more: which of
the different kinds of
knowledge makes him happy? or do all equally make him
happy?
Not all equally, he replied.
But which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of
what past,
present, or future thing? May I infer this to be the
knowledge of the game
of draughts?
Nonsense about the game of draughts.
Or of computation?
No.
Or of health?
That is nearer the truth, he said.
And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the
knowledge of
what?
The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil.
Monster! I said; you have been carrying me round in a
circle, and all this
time hiding from me the fact that the life according to
knowledge is not
that which makes men act rightly and be happy, not even if
knowledge
include all the sciences, but one science only, that of
good and evil.
For, let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away
this, medicine will
not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce
shoes, and the art
of the weaver clothes?--whether the art of the pilot will
not equally save
our lives at sea, and the art of the general in war?
Quite so.
And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well
or beneficially
done, if the science of the good be wanting.
True.
But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science
of human
advantage; not a science of other sciences, or of
ignorance, but of good
and evil: and if this be of use, then wisdom or
temperance will not be of
use.
And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? For,
however much we
assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway
over other
sciences, surely she will have this particular science of
the good under
her control, and in this way will benefit us.
And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the
effect of
medicine? Or does wisdom do the work of any of the
other arts,--do they
not each of them do their own work? Have we not long
ago asseverated that
wisdom is only the knowledge of knowledge and of ignorance,
and of nothing
else?
That is obvious.
Then wisdom will not be the producer of health.
Certainly not.
The art of health is different.
Yes, different.
Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that
again we have just
now been attributing to another art.
Very true.
How then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no
advantage?
That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.
You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing
that I could
have no sound notion about wisdom; I was quite right in
depreciating
myself; for that which is admitted to be the best of all
things would never
have seemed to us useless, if I had been good for anything
at an enquiry.
But now I have been utterly defeated, and have failed to
discover what that
is to which the imposer of names gave this name of
temperance or wisdom.
And yet many more admissions were made by us than could be
fairly granted;
for we admitted that there was a science of science,
although the argument
said No, and protested against us; and we admitted further,
that this
science knew the works of the other sciences (although this
too was denied
by the argument), because we wanted to show that the wise
man had knowledge
of what he knew and did not know; also we nobly
disregarded, and never even
considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a sort of
way that which
he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that he
knows that which
he does not know; than which nothing, as I think, can be
more irrational.
And yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the
enquiry is still
unable to discover the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and
has gone out of
its way to prove the inutility of that which we admitted
only by a sort of
supposition and fiction to be the true definition of
temperance or wisdom:
which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much to
be lamented, I
said. But for your sake, Charmides, I am very
sorry--that you, having such
beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have
no profit or
good in life from your wisdom and temperance. And
still more am I grieved
about the charm which I learned with so much pain, and to
so little profit,
from the Thracian, for the sake of a thing which is nothing
worth. I think
indeed that there is a mistake, and that I must be a bad
enquirer, for
wisdom or temperance I believe to be really a great good;
and happy are
you, Charmides, if you certainly possess it.
Wherefore examine yourself,
and see whether you have this gift and can do without the
charm; for if you
can, I would rather advise you to regard me simply as a
fool who is never
able to reason out anything; and to rest assured that the
more wise and
temperate you are, the happier you will be.
Charmides said: I am sure that I do not know,
Socrates, whether I have or
have not this gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can I
know whether I
have a thing, of which even you and Critias are, as you
say, unable to
discover the nature?--(not that I believe you.) And
further, I am sure,
Socrates, that I do need the charm, and as far as I am
concerned, I shall
be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say that I
have had
enough.
Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall
have a proof of
your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be
charmed by Socrates,
and never desert him at all.
You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said
Charmides: if
you who are my guardian command me, I should be very wrong
not to obey you.
And I do command you, he said.
Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.
You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about?
We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired
already.
And are you about to use violence, without even going
through the forms of
justice?
Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me;
and therefore
you had better consider well.
But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when
violence is
employed; and you, when you are determined on anything, and
in the mood of
violence, are irresistible.
Do not you resist me then, he said.
I will not resist you, I replied.